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Human Bitches

Chapter Eleven: Starting the New Day

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

Commissioned by Seinfeld 1999 and Kalenidus

Homeroom, and Bird was paying only the bare minimum of attention needed. She didn't think her distraction was unwarranted, though, not considering the events of the weekend. Even now, she could swear she could still taste the delicious cum of all those strong, healthy, virile male morphs on her tongue, could still feel their powerful hands on her naked skin, or gripping her ponytail possessively, dominantly, as they looked down into her eyes.

In her mind's eye, Bird could hear the morphs laughing at her while she begged for mercy, only to sink their teeth into the tender flesh of her breasts. Or spanking her pink bottom until it glowed red. Or tying her down on her back, forcing her to watch while they fed cock after cock into her tender cunny until her sex was gaped and flushed and soaked in thick, potent morphcum, her mind a blank, her body permanently dominated, forever addicted to the pleasure that only morphs could bring. She would be nothing but a slave to their whims, her only purpose in life to serve every little desire of her powerful, bestial masters.

Except, well, Bird's fantasies weren't really how morphs were. Perhaps a dominant morph like Spike would do things like that, but not without Bird's consent, and certainly not if she was begging him to stop…and meant it. She couldn't help but remember those handsome young morphs she'd met this morning during her jog over to Spike's place. There'd been a lot of them, and Bird wasn't stupid enough to think that she could have resisted even one of those healthy morphboys if they'd decided to have their way with her, even if they were her own age, give or take. Playing with fire, she'd teased them, she'd raced against them, she'd even promised her panties if they'd won, which, of course, they had – no human could hope to compare with a morph's tailored physique, after all. Since she hadn't been wearing any panties beneath her jogging shorts, though, she'd left the shorts with the morphboys instead, and finished her jog to Spike's place for a replacement half-naked, shamelessly flashing her toned soccer player's buns right before their hungry eyes. If those boys had been anything but perfect gentlemen, living examples of how restrained morphs could be, Bird had no doubt that she'd have never made it to Spike's at all. No, they'd have surrounded her, overpowered her, pinned her down on all-fours like some needy bitch in heat (not an unfair description, actually, Bird had to admit to herself), and ravished her until her mind was left a blank, save for the need for more morphcock. Spike had explained that morphmales couldn't “perform" if a femme was unwilling, but Bird hadn't been unwilling at all, and she knew perfectly well that the morning's events could have gone completely differently if those boys had decided to be even slightly more assertive. Most likely she wouldn't have made it to school that day; she'd have been too busy being serviced over and over and over again by every gorgeous teenage morphboy in the neighborhood around Spike's junkyard. Chances were, if things had gone that far, she might never have gone to school again.

After the experiences she'd had over the weekend, though, Bird was now completely aware of what morphs were like. Girl, Spike's spaniel-morph mate, had been very explicit about everything she knew about her own kind, and Spike had been no less forthcoming. The first thing Bird knew was that, around morphs, she was completely safe: they'd never do anything to her without her permission. Of course, getting her permission was a lot easier than it would've been with human males: morphs produced a variety of potent pheromones specially tailored to influence humans, especially young, healthy human femmes like Bird, right in the prime of her peak breeding years. The airborne pheromones were incredibly potent in themselves, but to actually get a taste of a morph's sexual fluids…honestly, Bird would be hard-pressed to find any substance more addictive. And all that weekend, she'd been doing little else except taking what had to be gallons of wonderful-tasting morphcum into every one of her holes.

Memories of the weekend's events came flooding back in a rush as Bird looked around her homeroom and caught sight of Rachael McMichaels, her friend who'd gotten all of this started, sitting near the front of the class, dressed as usual in her conservative schoolgirl's uniform (ostensibly the skirt, blouse, and blazer Rachael sported day after day was the official uniform required by school policy to be worn by all the young women who attended, but nobody seemed to care if those rules were broken). Everything had begun when red-haired Rachael had decided to take a long walk right through morphtown, rather than simply ride back home with her collie morphservant, Miss Benny. This random whim from the shy, reserved girl, perhaps an adolescent attempt to assert her individuality against a mother who could be so desperately domineering (on those few occasions when she wasn't away from home, involved in various “causes" intended to improve life for everyone, whether they wanted it or not), or perhaps because she'd wanted some time to herself, away from the steadily more distant Miss Benny, was the catalytic spark that set off everything else, a situation that Bird now realized was a powderkeg of adolescent sexual tension that had only been waiting for the right moment to explode.

On that short walk, Rachael had encountered the same group of morphboys Bird had teased that morning. At that time, Rachael hadn't known anything about morphs, even though she had a morphservant of her own, the one who'd basically raised her from birth onward – a common enough circumstance, where most children ended up being raised by a morphservant while their mothers went to work. The morphboys had crowded around her, blocking her way – or so she'd thought, though they would almost certainly have moved if she'd asked – as they flirted with her playfully and, as they'd thought, innocently. Poor, small, carrot-topped Rachael, a shy girl at the best of times, hadn't known what to do, and her morphservant, Benny, not seeing any danger, hadn't made any moves to intervene, even though she'd been only a short distance away, sitting in the McMichaels' limo. If Spike hadn't shown up right then, Rachael would've panicked, and that might've made for a really bad scene indeed.

Spike did show up, though. Having heard the full story from Girl, Spike's mate (as close to a wife as most morphs ever got), Bird understood that Spike was on his way back from the local morph fighting arena, a semi-legal but wildly popular underground club to watch morphs letting loose on each other, and had just happened on a human girl in the wrong neighborhood. All his time spent training morphs and studying the martial arts, starting back when he was still in the military, had given Spike a pretty keen observational ability, and he'd figured out what was going on in a few seconds. A short, nonviolent intervention later, and Rachael was safely in her limo and on her way back home, while the morphboys went elsewhere for their entertainment.

That wasn't the end, though. Once Mrs. Rebecca McMichaels, Rachael's mother, learned about the incident from her daughter and from Miss Benny, she'd been as close to furious as the cold woman ever got. Completely misunderstanding what had happened (much like her daughter had misunderstood the morphboys' intentions), she decided that Benny needed to be properly disciplined and retrained, and had made all the arrangements before she'd departed on her next nationwide trip to try and save the world…somehow (Rachael was never really sure exactly what her mother thought she was doing, and Bird had to admit, she didn't really “get" Mrs. McMichaels' actions either). And who better to do the training than the very morph who'd saved her daughter?

This was the part where Bird (her real name was Bridgette, but nobody called her that) Phelps came in, since she'd decided to come with Rachael and her closest friends, Shania Green and Yoko Ashigura, to watch Miss Benny getting trained…and bred. Turns out, most morph training procedures involved a lot of sex, and training a morph femme (the term morphs used to refer to all females, at least among themselves) typically also meant that she'd get bred as well, as a way of helping to even out her hormones and enhance her motherly instincts, making her a better morphservant. At least according to common wisdom, which might or might not have been all that accurate. Whatever the truth of the matter, Mrs. McMichaels had signed up Benny for breeding as well as training without a second thought, and Rachael and her friends had gone along for the ride.

Except, well, that ride turned out to be the 'hands-on' sort, as first the albino pitbull, Spike, had gotten Rachael to help him with properly dominating Benny, to speed up the process. The skinny carrot-topped teen had even been talked into wearing a strap-on to mount Benny's fluffy collie butt like she was a male herself. After that first time, with Benny ending up with a cuntfull of Spike's sperm, Spike had left a standing invitation to the four human girls to come by whenever they wanted, especially if they wanted to join in some of Spike's physical training. Bird had come by the next day, filled with an itch she didn't even realize she had, and taken part in one of those training sessions, except…Spike worked out in the nude. Wanting to fit in, Bird had joined him and Benny on the track, just as naked as they were. At the end, Bird had been so desperately horny, she'd offered up her virginity to Spike.

Bird wasn't the only girl to get her cherry popped by Spike…and not just Spike, either. Like floodwaters unleashed, and with Bird to vouch for Spike's skill as a trainer, soon Bird brought her more athletic friends by the field on the “clear" end of Spike's property, where he kept a big athletic field: Martinique Flowers, captain of the soccer team; Brandy Crews, captain of the basketball team; and Priss Martens, captain of the volleyball team had all come by to see Spike practicing martial arts with some of his morph friends. Brandy had stayed, along with Shania and Rachael and Bird herself, for an orgy that had taken up pretty much the rest of the weekend. Martinique had left before the orgy started in the company of a British white Alsatian named Huey, but not before the beautiful black girl had assured Spike that she'd be bringing her team by for training come Monday, as soon after school as possible. Priss…well, Priss was a little more hesitant about it, but she'd been willing to do the same, if Martinique's soccer team started winning. She also hadn't stayed for the orgy, but Bird knew that poor Priss, like the rest of the Martens girls, had some serious trust issues; she'd come around, of that Bird was certain. In fact, once the spiky-haired redhead realized just how trust_worthy_ morphs were, Bird had little doubt that Priss would be even more enthusiastic than Bird was at serving a morph master.

After such a wild weekend, it struck Bird as…odd, and strangely mundane, seeing her friends in the everyday context of school once more. And wearing clothes! A glance back, and Bird met Brandy's eyes, the auburn-haired girl sitting in the seat just behind and to Bird's left. They held each others' gazes for a moment before Brandy blushed and studiously pored over the daily announcements passed out by the class president, Marley Keys. Brandy wasn't wearing the official school uniform, of course, any more than Bird was. Instead, Brandy was sporting a tight pair of cutoff jeans shorts, a black t-shirt with some band's logo, and her favorite bright red, flames-bedecked jacket-vest. Now paying attention to clothes, Bird looked at the fashion plate class president, more closely than she'd bothered to do in times past. Marley, with her artful wavy hair piled on top of her head with perfect coiffure, was dressed in a frilly mid-thigh-length purple dress, accessorized with a pink jacket. Marley's best friend, Phoenix Klingeman, assisting the class president, wore a blue skirt that was even shorter than her friend's dress, the ensemble completed by a black top and frilly pink undershirt. Just more evidence of how flagrantly – and openly – the rules of the school were flouted, without anyone on any level bothering to object.

Just wearing gym shorts and tight school t-shirt, same as usual, Bird hadn't ever really cared much about fashion before. She knew it was important to some of the girls at school, of course, and could even act as a serious way to set yourself apart, or prove yourself an acceptable member of a particular clique, but Bird's friends weren't part of the “serious" cliques (outside of the sports teams, that is), and so Bird had never been forced to figure out the deeper mysteries of female fashion. Now, though, she started to pay attention, not so much because she was interested in learning these secrets for her own use, but more because her recent sexual awakening had given her a sense of understanding that she hadn't possessed before. With that understanding came a recognition of opportunity.

Clothes, Bird realized, were a lot like the brilliant plumage of birds and the bright petals of flowers in nature: they were open sexual callsigns, a way both to attract a mate, and to compete with other members of the species. And competition was hot! While she didn't know the exact numbers, Bird was aware that human boys were scarce, devastated by whyker, a disease that had ravaged the world's population of humans, and its male population in particular. In her homeroom, just as an example, there was only one boy, Bruno Custer, where there were twenty-nine girls, and every one of those girls did their best to sit next to the broad-shouldered, black-haired, perfectly-tanned athlete, the best of the boys' sparsely-populated wrestling team, even if it meant risking the ire of their teacher by breaking the seating order she had set on the first day of class. If some girls couldn't sit next to him, then they'd try to sit in some position easily within his view, all the better to show off their clothes…or lack thereof. Actually, Bird had noticed before, though not consciously, how the closer a girl sat to Bruno's seat, and the more clearly visible her seat was to his (such as the ones directly in front of him), the tighter and more revealing the clothes she wore would be.

Just as an example of this phenomenon, there was Lia (Bird didn't know her well enough to know her last name), the girl with the gorgeous, strawberry-red curls who loved home economics, seated right in front of Bruno. At the start of her first year, Lia had worn a school uniform, just like most girls, with the accepted knee-length skirt and white blouse beneath the blazer, just doing her best to fit in and not attract attention. Now, the blouse had been replaced with an extra-tight Daisy Dukes, even if she didn't really have a big enough bust for that sort of look, and a skirt so short, Bird could see the girl's heart-shaped pink bottom quite clearly while she sat down, the view not obscured in the slightest by panties. On the other hand, the feathery-haired blonde girl directly behind Bruno, Blanka by name (Bird thought she was an immigrant from somewhere in Europe; she certainly had the accent) had come to school the first day sporting a pair of shredded jeans shorts and a t-shirt that mostly just clung to the tops of her good-sized breasts, letting their bottom halves stick out in full view. Those shorts, meantime, were so shredded, when Blanka spread her legs, a hint of smooth pink skin could be clearly seen right between her legs, a more than generous glimpse of her bald pubis laid out like a billboard.

Then there were the girls near the front of the room, the ones who went in for class over sluttiness. Marley and Phoenix were the best examples of such feminine loveliness in Bird's homeroom, but even they didn't let their skirts go lower than their mid-thighs, and she knew for a fact, thanks to casual observation in the locker room, that neither of those seemingly well-dressed young women had a pair of panties between them. Plenty of girls, especially the ones from the really rich families, went for this classy look, with just a hint of underlying sexual eagerness…or at least that was the intention. Teenagers being what they were, still learning all the subtle nuances of their own sexualities, and too often rather low on subtlety, these intentions only occasionally succeeded.

Of course, Bird was aware of a counter-culture that had started fairly recently, girls immediately identifiable by the gold crosses or, occasionally, crucifixes they wore around their necks, interspersed with a few Stars of David. None of them were in Bird's homeroom, but they were a large enough minority group that she couldn't help but have seen them around. These good Christian and Jewish girls liked to display scriptural works prominently, and formed little knots who would chat about whatever their preachers had been talking about last Sunday. Bird's opinion of these Good Girl cliques, though, wasn't far from the opinion of most others who knew about them: they might talk a lot about chastity – or occasionally even celibacy – as a way of life, and pretend a general disdain for boys and all the complications relationships brought, but in the end, their skirts were as short as anyone else's. They were a bit more likely to wear panties, though, Bird had to admit.

Aaaand…there was the bell. Standing, Bird let the maelstrom of her fellow highschoolers press past her, not feeling the usual need for hurry that she'd often felt before that life-changing weekend. Even though everything seemed to have stayed the same, for Bird, everything was also so very, very different. She felt as though she were standing on some mountaintop, able to look down calmly, detachedly, at the life going on all around her, and make her decisions without being influenced by the raging hormones that had been dominating her life right up until she'd allowed herself to be seduced by Spike, and accepted her place as one of his mates. Sure of her place in the world, Bird allowed herself to idly consider which of the girls that filled the halls of her highschool would be good mates, like her and Rachael and Brandy and Shania, and which ones would serve better as omegas. Or, in more human terms, as slaves.

There was the big part of Girl's plan, the part that she'd hatched with Red, and shared with Bird and her friends, but hadn't told Spike about. Bird expected that Spike would figure it out before too long, since he was as smart as he was tough – and he was very tough indeed – but by that point there'd probably be at least a score of utterly-dominated, eager-to-please highschool girls around his junkyard, desperate to serve his every whim, thinking it the highest honor to wear his chains and bear his puppies. Glancing from side to side as she walked down the highschool's halls, slightly crowded after the consolidation of schools that had followed the plagues, grouping together as many students as possible into the best facilities available, and seeing so much exposed girlflesh put on display in the desperate hope of attracting the attention of one of the scant few boys left after the outbreak of the dread whyker disease, Bird couldn't help but realize that her part of the plan was going to be a lot easier to carry out than she'd initially thought.

“They're like bitches in heat," came a soft, shy voice from Bird's shoulder, and she turned from where she'd been admiring the thong-clad bottoms of a voluptuous pair of Nordic-blooded girls – Ramona Ekman and Anjoy Ulvin, members of the all-girls baseball team – as they rummaged inside their lockers, their short skirts riding high, to her friend, Rachael. For a moment, Bird thought about saying something to contradict Rachael's assessment. Then she just shrugged with a light smile.

“Just don't let them hear you say it, Rach," she finally concluded, letting herself be drawn along in the flow of human traffic while staying right next to her friend, losing track of Brandy somewhere in the press. “Even if it's true, people don't like to hear truth when it isn't sugar-coated."

“We're not that different, are we?" Rachael asked, glancing up at her far taller, blonde friend. “We were both so eager for a male like Spike. We wanted to be taken, claimed…even dominated." The carrot-topped teen smiled as she looked down, the twintails of her odangoes dangling around her shoulders. “I guess there's something comforting about knowing where you belong in the world…and to whom."

“And now we're both looking for others to join us," Bird agreed. “Like we're the bait in a trap. A trap for needy human puppies, desperate for a real male, without really understanding what they want. What they need."

“Is what we're doing wrong, Bird?" Rachael suddenly asked as she looked up at Bird, her expression earnest. “Every girl we bring to Spike is going to be…well…you know," she trailed off with an embarrassed flush, one hand trailing up to her neck, presently bare of the collar she'd worn all weekend, and then down across her smooth, uniform-covered tummy. “We both know how…powerful it feels, how overwhelming. There's no escape once you've had a taste of what morphmen can give you. There isn't even any desire to try. All that's left is the desire to worship them, like they were pagan gods. And the more you submit, the more you degrade yourself…the more satisfying it feels."

“That's not an unfair question," Bird admitted, slowing as she drew near her next class, Physics, which she'd put near the start of her day so that her mind would be fresh and more able to handle the extensive mental gymnastics demanded by the extensive math that underlaid all of reality. “I guess it depends on the answers to some questions. First of all, do we feel like we don't have any choices? Second, are we being forced, in any way?"

“I guess not," Rachael answered after a moment's thought. “We never were forced, and we still aren't. Anytime we want, Spike's made it clear we don't have to wear his collars. They don't have any sort of locks or straps that we can't undo at any moment we choose. All the same, I feel bound to him. I feel like I've lost some essential element of control over my life. I've given it up…and the feeling is intense."

“It feels really good to belong to a male like Spike," Bird agreed, taking her friend's hand and squeezing it lightly. “Kind of weird: we're giving up our freedom, but I've never felt more liberated. We're losing ourselves in wild orgies of lust, but my mind has never been more clear."

“A paradox," Rachael agreed with a giggle, reminding Bird of her friend's love for Gilbert and Sullivan musicals. “Yoko loves that philosophy stuff. I'll try to talk to her later today." Then the carrot-topped teen swallowed nervously. “After I've seen the school nurse, that is. I think I might have, um, a stomach ache."

“Just check in with your first-hour teacher before you go," Bird comforted her friend, rubbing Rachael's back. “Nobody might be paying much attention to the rules around here anymore, but at least you can pretend like you care."

“You know me, Bird," Rachael answered with a wan smile. “After all, I'm probably the only person left in this school that still wears an unaltered uniform."

*

Standing by the side of the large bed, Diane Lords flexed the riding crop in her hands, smiling down at her victim with cold cruelty. Dressed in leather, the uniform that demonstrated her power, her complete and absolute mastery, the almost impossibly gorgeous, supermodel-flawless blonde woman leaned forward slightly, teasing the very tip of the crop against her victim's fluffy tush.

Doing his best not to whimper, not to flinch, Pal sank his teeth a little more tightly into the husky plushie in his mouth. He was a Good Boy, and he knew Mistress couldn't enjoy herself if he whimpered. She was in charge now, the one calling the shots, powerful and dominant in every way, a gold-haired goddess clad in leather and her own flesh. But if he made any sad noises, or looked at her with his expressive blue eyes…well, that would be the end of playtime, wouldn't it?

Except, when he heard the swish of the crop coming back, he couldn't help it! Despite his best efforts, despite his determination to please Mistress at all costs, when he heard that sound, felt the tension in the air before the crop would come down on his exposed bottom…he whined. The sound wasn't very loud, of course – just a bit louder than a whisper, actually – but it was loud enough for Mistress to hear it, loud enough to melt her heart, and in an instant she was untying him, kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, her loving hands caressing his strong muscles through the soft, fluffy fur of his back and chest.

“I'm sorry, Mistress," Pal apologized the moment Diane gently popped the plushie out of his muzzle so that she could better kiss him. “I tried really hard to be good. I didn't mean to make noise and spoil things for you."

“You know I'm not mad, silly puppy," Diane giggled, kissing the tip of his black-padded nose, then 'booping' it with a finger, making him blink then snort softly. “You really do – you could smell it if I was."

Which, of course, was true: Pal could smell Diane Lords' emotions as easily as he could those of anyone, but hers especially well, since he'd made a study of her life and whims down to the least detail. When Pal had been trained as a military medic during his stint in the morph corps, a stint cut short by…incidents beyond his control, his attention to the scents of others had always been one of his best assets, often letting him diagnose illnesses in a fraction of the time needed by a human. Sure, he might not've had the nose of a bloodhound, but that wasn't nearly as important as caring about the people you were smelling. And Pal cared deeply about people.

Then Diane was standing, and Pal was there beside her, helping her tug off the tight, slick leather that encased her body in pure domination. She let him do most of the work, of course, allowing him the privilege of stripping his mistress naked in the sun-dappled bedroom.

“Honestly, I shouldn't have been messing around in the first place," Diane sighed, flexing her toes when Pal finished helping her out of her boots, then went to fetch her proper clothes. “We had a few hours, I suppose, and you do have the most adorably spankable bottom, Pal, but I really ought to focus more on the business at hand. Especially business this important." Gracefully, Diane stepped into the immaculate business dress Pal brought her, arching her back as he zipped her up, then lifted each foot as he slid on first her stockings, then her high heels. The movements were practiced, perfect, and together they made them look effortless, as effortless as the artfulness of Diane's flowing golden locks as they swayed around her shoulders. “After all, it's the fate of morphs everywhere that might be on the line here."

“Yes Mistress," Pal agreed, though of course he'd have agreed to anything Diane asked of him, up to and including letting her take his life if it would have pleased her. Luckily for him, nothing would have pleased her less – she loved him, and wanted him around for a long, long time, especially after she'd let her daughter, Mercy, take her dobiemorph, Ambrose, with her first when she'd gone off to college, and then when she'd needed a bodyguard after she entered the political game. Despite this act of generosity, however, Diane had spent most of her life with a special morph to take care of her needs, and if she hadn't come upon Pal shortly after she'd sprung him from the killblock where she'd found him, well, there was no telling how chaotic her life would have become. But she did find Pal, and as long as he'd serve her willingly, she would never let the gorgeous, eager-to-please huskyboy go. No, not ever. Who knew? Maybe she'd even let him get her pregnant at some point. After all, her doctors, and Pal himself, had assured her that she wasn't too old to have another child. Why not with one of the males she truly loved?

Then Pal was helping her, guiding her to her mansion's teleconference room, the place where she did a great deal of business these days. As telecommunications got steadily better, even integrating three-dimensional technology with smooth precision, there was steadily less reason for Diane Lords to leave her mansion in order to manage her international business enterprises. While she'd started out marrying the head of a major candy company, she'd always done her best to stay on the cutting edge of business, showing a knack for management that well exceeded her late husband's, and an eerily good talent for snapping up companies with promise, until now the Lords Corporation was a biotech magnate that rivaled Dupont or Proctor and Gamble. Nanogels were the second biggest sellers of her company (outside of chocolate, of course, which was still the biggest, especially now that people had finally grown less leery of gengineered organisms in their food), the advanced substances that could dye hair right down to the roots, changing its users' hair color to just about anything imaginable for months or even years with proper care, or simply defoliate that same hair completely, tweaking the hair follicles themselves to stop producing, making baby smooth skin a reality with minimal effort. Though there wasn't much call for gels with anti-aging effects yet, since so many of the older generations had died in the recent plagues that had swept the world, Diane Lords had her teams already hard at work on meeting the need she knew would be coming in only a decade or two, using those same nanogels to rewrite skin cells on the most fundamental levels. They were already popular as a line of cosmetics, far more natural-looking and -feeling than any cream or powder, and right then, Lords Labs were fairly sure that the sky was the limit on what else nanogels could do.

All of that, though, was less important to Diane than her biggest concern: whyker. The dread killer. The retroviral plague that had wiped out somewhere in the vicinity of sixty percent of the world's total human population, and sterilized a good thirty to forty percent of the survivors, minimum – the numbers were still coming in, and were almost certainly underreported for such a sensitive subject. And that was just the overall bodycount: the disease was a shortened form of “Y-Chromosome Killer Retrovirus," YKR, a name it had taken because it focused its most brutal effects on anyone with a Y-chromosome – human men.

Years had passed, and whyker was more-or-less under control these days, not so much because a single real cure had been found, but more because it had apparently run its course. The wealthy were the only ones able to afford the desperately expensive gene therapy that worked best at countering whyker's ravages, and so it was the wealthiest twenty percent of the population of Earth that had survived best, though even in their case, it was mostly rich women who'd made the cut. On the other end of the spectrum, however, were another group of survivors: inmates of Federal correctional facilities, where treatments, though not as effective as those used by the ultra-rich, were freely available. One might have thought that countries where health care was publicly available would have provided similar services, but the sheer extent of the plague had quickly caused such healthcare systems to break down in mere months, outside of a few controlled circumstances. Canada, for instance, had managed to weather the plaguestorm almost unscathed, though only by enforcing draconian border security to keep American immigrants from overwhelming the systems in place, and mainland Europe had been even more brutal in keeping refugees out, and only providing medical assistance to “pure Europeans." The children of the survivors, though, no matter what their social status or level of wealth, seemed immune to whyker. Vastly more girl babies than boys had been born in the last twenty years, of course, but very few of these surviving children, boy or girl, seemed to show any susceptibility to whyker. For all practical purposes, the plague had been stymied.

At least that was the official story. Diane Lords knew better, though. After all, it was her personally-funded thinktank that had collected the most skilled researchers in the world – pathologists and physicians and organic chemists and microbiologists and genetic engineers – all working together with the common goal of finally understanding what had devastated humanity so utterly, and seeing what could be made of that understanding. To meet with the two greatest of those great minds was at the top of Diane Lords' agenda that day, the ones who truly understood whyker, who knew more about its origins and effects than anyone else alive. To meet with them and to hear, at last, what they had learned, so that she could decide what to do about it. With all her power and influence also came a heavy weight of responsibility, after all. The responsibility to decide what was best not just for her company, but for the whole wide world.

Refusing to let herself be daunted by the task before her, Diane let Pal hold the door to the teleconference room, and stepped inside. The room itself was actually quite sterile-looking, even spartan, with a simple white finish to the walls and floor, the ceiling done in shiny black. The colors, of course, were to better allow the three-dimensional imaging to work, while the black of the ceiling simply masked the countless micro-projectors that lay just beneath its crystalline surface. In the middle of the room was a long table, and on that table was the headset that would connect Diane Lords to the rest of the world. Despite advances, the headset was still a bit bulky, but that was hardly surprising considering what it was intended to do, and how well it could do it. Scooping up the sizable contraption, Diane fit it over her eyes, then let Pal take care of adjusting the straps and carefully slipping it beneath her hair, so as not to mar her flawless tresses. After all, even in a virtual conference (and perhaps especially so), appearances were everything.

There was a soft flash, then a slight hum, and Diane Lords seated herself at one end of the table, letting the system pull her in. That was how it felt, actually: as though she were being pulled into a vast, wide world, or maybe an entire galaxy, drawn by gravitic forces greater than she could properly understand. Then the table in front of her changed, becoming a smooth wooden desk, and she smiled, nodding as she recognized it: it was a work table at the biggest library on the East Coast, a special table always reserved by one particular user. Its virtual version, naturally, was his preferred piece of furniture when he took part in teleconferencing.

“Hello Cutty," Diane greeted the massive American alligator morph seated to her left at the table, dressed in a spotless white labcoat. “And hello Suleiman," she continued the address, turning to nod respectfully to the handsome, dusky-skinned man to her right, dressed in a simple sweater, the rest of his body hidden by the table. “It's good to see you both again."

Dr. Suleiman Mamoud (nicknamed “Stinky" by his closest friends for reasons that were known to only a tiny number…Diane among them, though she preferred his given name) nodded in return, while Cutty simply fixed his turquoise blue eyes on Diane's. Aside from his labcoat, of course, the big gator was naked, simply because he felt more comfortable that way. She and Stinky had simply learned to adapt, the same way Diane usually showed up dressed to the nines, but her morphservant, Pal, typically ended up in her vicinity somewhere between completely naked and only mostly so. Only Dr. Mamoud regularly avoided embarrassing displays in these threeway conferences, but Diane supposed that it was only a matter of time before something entertaining crept its way into his feed.

“Salaam Diana, Cutty, my friends," Suleiman greeted the pair, and they both knew he meant it – they were his friends, and the greeting wasn't simple politeness. Once more, however, Cutty said nothing, but neither of the humans in the room seemed bothered by the big gator's silence. Cutty wasn't the sort to waste words, not even with people he loved like family.

“We should begin," Cutty suddenly spoke up, blinking once before he let his startlingly blue eyes shift between Diane and Suleiman. “Stinky's been sharing some of his data with me, and with that added to my own studies, I'd say we've got something big for you, Diane. I mean life-and-death big."

“I am afraid that Cutty is right," admitted Suleiman with a reluctant smile, his neatly-trimmed moustache flexing with the expression. “I'll let him give you the summary that you've been wanting from us for a while now. Then, when he's finished, I'll give you some of the more unpleasant details. Of course, all the information we'll be sharing has already been transmitted to you in a far more complete form." He chuckled lightly. “With what Cutty and I have put together, I'd say a Nobel Prize looms in our future."

“Your future," Cutty corrected with a light shrug. “Morphs don't count as people, Stinky. You know that."

“I never meant…"

Cutty raised a placating clawed hand.

“'s'all right, Stinky," the gator soothed. “Let's just give Diane the news. Most of it's pretty bad, after all, so we might as well get started."

Lightly brushing his taloned fingers over the table in front of him, Cutty drew up several diagrams from the electronic ethers, all the better to illustrate his words.

“You know what everybody does about whyker, Diane," Cutty began. “Or think they know, at least. The biggest plague ever to hit the human population, akin to the Black Death, but even more universal. Affects the male of the species more severely than females. Pretty much wiped out the population of central and western Africa, and blasted China so badly, their population isn't projected to stabilize for at least another fifty years. There's the official word. Now, let's get down to the Truth."

Diane heard the capitalization of “Truth" in Cutty's words, and couldn't resist arching an eyebrow. After all, no self-respecting scientist dealt in such absolutes. But then, Cutty wasn't your typical scientist.

“The real story is this," Cutty continued, ignoring Diane's expression as he lifted his hands, pulling up several different pictures – pictures of obviously very different microorganisms, as recorded by microscopic photographic methods. “Thanks to the leaks of Dr. Liu before his government made him disappear, we've found the biggest origin point of the disease: China, back when it was still the People's Republic. We've also found out that a lot of the diseases misdiagnosed as whyker weren't whyker at all: they were deliberate products of China, retroviruses released to aid them in war. After new satellite defense systems were developed, making nukes steadily less effective, North Korea finally getting reabsorbed into the South, and with them already agitating on the border of India, the Chinese government was feeling pretty insecure. So they went to work and started producing some nasty bugs. Retroviruses aplenty, all of them meant to do some really dirty work, then self-destruct, removing all evidence.

“That's not whyker, though. All of those retroviruses are just the reason things got as bad as they did, running rampant before they could be properly contained. Whyker, the real retrovirus, has another origin, one that's a lot more obscured behind government barriers. Weird thing is, it wasn't meant to be a hazard to humanity. Instead, it was meant to be something highly positive, but which went totally out of control.

“You'll probably recall that India was the first country to deploy morphs as part of their active, in-field military force, even if other countries had them as reserves. India is also where the first outbreaks of whyker appeared, before jumping swiftly to China via its human soldiers. Dr. Liu was the first one who sold the plans for artificial wombs and the genetic blueprints for morphs on the international black market – another reason why his government made him disappear. From what I gather, based on copies of documents long buried, and still top secret in more nations than I care to consider, morphs are the original source of whyker. Where morphs go, so too went the dread disease. My own species is, albeit unwittingly, partially responsible for the deaths of so very, very many."

Cutty paused a moment, letting his words sink in. His expression was grim, and even his alligator's smile, normally a permanent fixture on his face due to the shape of his jaw, had faded from view.

“The origins of morphs are even older. The documents I have are incomplete, and many of them are very poor copies, almost impossible to read even after being digitally cleaned up, so I can't tell you all the details. Nevertheless, I know enough to say some things with certainty. Apparently the idea behind my species was originally conceived at the end of the Cold War, when the Soviet Union had just fallen, but there were a large number of 'old guard' leaders who didn't want to fade away without a fight. Thankfully, the Soviet government kept their nuclear arsenal out of the hands of these old guarders, so they turned to a more radical approach to waging war instead: creating soldiers with tailored genetics. A new species, one that would overwhelm the mostly male troops of enemy nations, and then breed with captive human females to produce still more soldiers, until they made up an unstoppable horde. The female population of these soldiers would be kept minimal by genetic designs that ensured they'd produce mostly Y-chromosome sperm, which in turn would make it easier to control their population, ensuring that they could be wiped out after they'd softened up the foes of the fallen Soviet Union, allowing it to rise again.

“These masterminds assembled a team of rogue scientists, some of the very best in their fields, people willing to ignore ethics for an opportunity to create something beyond all belief. I understand that even a few pre-Nuremburg war criminals were snuck out before they could be executed, and brought to join this international band of Frankensteinian innovators. Whoever they were, though, they were geniuses, all of them perfect examples of science utterly divorced from the constraints of ethics. They were shipped away to a distant island, and allowed to simply create to their hearts' content.

“Naturally, such work as they were doing took time, and eventually the original masterminds who'd made the project happen died off, most of them because of old age, though some were executed for treason, and some were assassinated or otherwise put away quietly. In time, the scientists on their tiny island were left alone, without even the marginal connections to society that they'd once had. They did some minor trade with black marketeers from Australia and the Philippines, especially to keep their computer systems as up-to-date as possible, but for the most part, they just dropped off the map. And then they suddenly stopped trading completely, and vanished from all human knowledge.

“That all changed when, quite by accident, a small American yacht was blown badly off-course, and discovered the deserted isle where our scientists had been working. The civilians on board that vessel discovered the work of those scientists, and not just the strange devices and genetic blueprints they'd left in their ruined labs. No, what they discovered were actual, living, breathing morphs, the first ever made. They also discovered the scientists themselves, all of them dead. The first victims of whyker.

“Whyker, according to the documents left at that original site, was intended to be a symbiont, a retrovirus that would trim out bad genes, ensuring that most genetic failings brought on by mutation would never afflict the rogue scientists' creation. No diabetes, no schizophrenia, no dementia, no hemophilia, just to name a few of the more prominent genes targeted – all of them purged from the gene pool before they could even appear in the first place. Zygotes that had undesirable traits that were too extreme to be repaired by the retrovirus would spontaneously abort before they'd grown beyond a few cells in size, and adults with such traits would either have them corrected, if they were minor enough, or have their genes culled from the population as whyker broke them down at the genetic level, killing or sterilizing them, depending on their personal health. Since the morphs were originally intended to be mostly male warriors, the retrovirus was made to be especially effective on cells with Y-chromosomes in them. But it worked too well, and soon it not only escaped, it jumped species, leaping from morphs…to humans. And so the scientists died, killed by their own creations. Not morphs, but by the thing meant to make morphs perfect. If they'd realized what was happening sooner, they might have saved themselves, but most of them were consumed with hubris, and died before they were willing to admit that perhaps they'd done too good a job.

“Those American civilians didn't stay lost on the island, of course. They got out distress signals, and eventually were picked up by a combination of Chinese and American naval forces, who arrived at roughly the same time. The Americans took copies of everything they could, and their citizens, and the living, breathing morphs themselves, and left the rest to the Chinese. So the Chinese got the first working artificial wombs, complete with the subliminal training machines that have always proved essential to indoctrinating morphs, but the Americans got the plans for making these same devices, and living specimens of morphs to study as well. Neither side really understood the full extent of what they'd found, of course, and very few of those who knew how to make the artificial wombs work knew why they could do what they did, something that is still largely true, even as the artificial wombs served as the focal point of the biotech revolution that's swept our world. All the same, the genie was out of its lamp, and the morphs were here. As was whyker.

“And that's the full story, or as full as anyone alive can share without deep, dark government clearance, Diane. Whyker was meant to help morphs, and it tries to do the same with humans. In its original form, whyker would probably have just sterilized vast parts of the human population, the ones with too many flaws hidden in their genes, the inevitable result of far too many years of uncontrolled breeding without any significant effort at practicing sensible eugenics. A troubling event, but not one that would have been noticed until well after it had fulfilled its purpose. However, whyker also encountered several unknown retroviruses that had been manufactured by the Chinese, and also several other organizations, most of them terrorists making use of the new possibilities opened up by the artificial wombs. Soon these retroviruses mutated into various new and terrible forms which spread like wildfire across the globe. The rest, as the cliché goes, is history. And so were so many, many people, in numbers that boggle my mind. The offspring of the survivors have vastly improved genetics, almost on par with those of morphs, but the cost," he shook his head. “The cost is far too high."

“I'm afraid Cutty has summed up matters quite nicely," chimed in Suleiman, heaving a long sigh. “But it's not all grim. Actually, we have two pieces of good news to show for our labors. Cutty and I have been working closely together, as you intended for us to do, along with my…assistant, whom you so kindly introduced to me, dear Diane, at that office party, if you'll recall."

“I certainly do recall," chuckled Diane with a wry smile. “I'm glad you're still getting along with dear Sepia."

“Well, yes, quite," the Middle Eastern scientist admitted, his dark skin turning a shade darker as he blushed. “But relationships aside, there is a silver lining. For starters, the mutated versions of whyker, the truly deadly sorts, have mostly died out. When they encounter the original strain in the body of a host, the original strain almost always wins the ensuing battle, leaving the vastly less lethal version remaining to do its work, improving the genetics of its host, or sterilizing the worst cases.

“That's just the first bit of good news, however. The even better bit of good news is that we've found a potential cure! You see, those Americans who first stumbled upon the morphs never suffered any ill effects from whyker, despite being stranded on the very island where the retrovirus was first made. I've since hit on the reason why: close contact with morphs serves to assist the human immune system to cope with whyker, either its original form, or its mutated strains. The closer this contact, and the more thorough, the better. The full reasons, of course, are detailed in the documentation we've sent you, though I'm afraid they're rather dry and technical. Suffice to say, I think we can develop a vaccine of sorts, given only a little more time and work. One that might not interfere with the positive effects of whyker, in fact, as long as we're careful, and administer the injections in a controlled environment."

“Hmm," Diane broke in with a wide and rather wicked smile. “Close contact, you say? I take it, then, that you're glad for Sepia's presence in your life for more than the obvious reasons, eh, Stinky?"

“I…I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Diane," the poor, flustered scientist protested, before his eyes grew wide behind his square-cut, horn-rimmed glasses, his voice cutting off quite suddenly, interrupted by the sound of a zipper being drawn down. Diane frowned slightly as she adjusted the settings on her headset, then smiled even wider than before as she caught sight of a flash of a black-and-white bushy tail busily wiggling beneath the table.

“I'm sure that you do," Diane teased. “But don't worry, my dear Stinky: I won't tell a soul. And when my daughter succeeds in getting morphs recognized legally, I won't need to keep the secret anymore, because you'll finally be able to get that wedding you've been wanting for far too long."

Sepia, of course, was the reason why Suleiman was sometimes called Stinky: a beautiful skunkmorph femme, and a brilliant microbiologist besides, had fallen head-over-heels in love with the human scientist, and he'd fallen just as completely in love with her. Their relationship might've been perfect, except that Sepia (like a great many morphs) was an exhibitionist, and she took special delight in public displays of affection. Displays like right now, with his smooth brown penis in her mouth as she bobbed her head and bushy tail right beneath the table only a short distance from Diane and Cutty. If Suleiman hadn't taken pains to program his three-dimensional feed so that it didn't pick up all the details of his surroundings, well, Diane was quite certain she'd have that embarrassing incident she'd been waiting to happen to her dear friend.

Ah, but now wasn't the time for merriment. Diane had a hard decision to make, and she needed Cutty and Suleiman on her side for the decision to work.

“I know it goes against your deeply-held beliefs as scientists," Diane began, her expression genuinely sad, “but I'm afraid that I'll have to ask you both to keep what you've learned to yourselves for the time being."

“B-but why?" Suleiman exclaimed, moving his hand beneath the table in an attempt to fend off the greedy skunkling working him over. “We're so close to a cure now…"

“You don't need to bury the cure," Diane amended, sharing a look of complete understanding with Cutty, who caught on far faster, perhaps because he didn't have a gorgeous woman performing fellatio on him at that moment. “Actually, I want you to get to work on that as soon as possible and earn your Nobel Prize. What I want you to do is to not reveal the fact that morphs are the originators of whyker. Can you even begin to imagine the public reaction if it was discovered that morphs were the cause, however indirectly, of the single most devastating plague to ever afflict humanity? That sort of knowledge will have to wait at least a decade before it can come out, or there's almost certain to be a bloodbath of biblical proportions." She looked down sadly, pain etched on her face. “My daughter is so close to achieving her goals for morph rights. So close."

Blinking as the blowjob beneath the table stopped, Suleiman looked down into a lovely, upturned black-and-white face, a pair of soft blue eyes meeting his own brown-eyed gaze. He held Sepia's eyes for a long while, then lifted his to meet Diane's.

“It will be done," he said with a single, affirming nod.

“Of course," said Cutty with a shrug, before snorting softly. “Not like anybody would believe me anyway. After all, I'm just a morph."

“You're not 'just' anything, Cutty," Diane chided gently, before rising from her chair, followed soon after by both men, demonstrating their manners – though Suleiman only after some hasty readjustments “down below." “I'll be reviewing those documents you've sent. For now, though, I think that our business is concluded."

“Yeah," agreed Cutty, the smile reluctantly returning to his face. “And there's still time to get some work done before lunch, too."

“Ah, that reminds me," Diane suddenly added in the moment after Suleiman had signed off, but before Cutty did the same. “I've been meaning to speak with you about…a matter of some urgency, Cutty. Would you mind lingering for a little while?"

The gator cocked his head to the side as he saw Pal step into his view, just behind the beautiful blonde woman.

“Sure," he answered, though not without a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I can hang around…for a little while."

*

Please don't think of me as a slut. That sort of labeling hurts me. Badly. Yes, I do enjoy sex – quite a lot, actually – but I don't think of myself as a “loose" femme.

When I was younger, starting from shortly after I was first decanted, I worked as a whore in the “fur houses" of the Philippines. Not the most pleasant job in the world, of course (unless it was servicing American troops, that is – those guys are still the best customers a girl could ask for), but it was a living. Actually, it was the only life I knew for the first six years after I came out of my vat. You see, morphs are greatly desired by the sex trade of just about any country on the periphery of the first world. That's because we have a vastly greater capacity for enjoying sex than a human. More than that, if we're educated properly for the occupation by the subliminal training devices in most artificial wombs meant to grow morphs, not only are we popular as exotic, forbidden lovers, we tend to adapt well, and then focus on becoming the best possible professionals at our jobs. Morphs are like that in any profession, of course; it's just how we're wired.

Like so many other morphs, I owe a lot to Angel Lords (called “Diane Lords" by humans, but we morphs know better). She's the one who campaigned against morph trafficking, against our degraded positions in society the whole world over. More importantly, she's the one who very specifically put pressure on the government of the Philippines until they got serious about cracking down on the sex trade and taking morphs into custody, before handing them over to Angel Lords' newly-established reeducation facilities made specifically to get morphs ready for life on their own, complete with jobs and everything. Her personally-funded programs made it possible for me to become a microbiologist, specializing in the pathology of sexually transmitted diseases; I'd seen so many of my human friends in the trade get sick, I simply had to do what I could to help them. Morphs, of course, are immune to STDs, or at least any known ones (and most sicknesses and infections, actually; we also heal at a ridiculous rate, all thanks to having enzymes normally found in Komodo dragons as a part of our blood), but that hardly seems like a good excuse not to do my part.

Like you may have heard, I met Suileman at an “office party." That's what Angel Lords likes to call them, I guess because they usually take place somewhere in one of her office buildings. She's the one who introduced me personally to Stinky (though he wasn't called that yet), since we were both working on finding a way to combat the various gengineered blights that had ravished Chinese, Indian, and Pakistani agriculture after they started using genetic sabotage as a way to wage war without being obvious about it. Seriously, those deadly fungi caused at least as much death and devastation as whyker and its lethal relations ever did, and probably more, considering how many tens of millions of people died of starvation while the rest of the world was too busy with its own problems to send any humanitarian aid to alleviate the crisis.

So we started off talking about business, since we'd only met through e-mails before that moment. My Stinky was actually more surprised to discover that I was a woman than that I was a morph – he'd been raised in a pretty chauvinistic background, and though he's been trying his whole life to change his way of thinking, it's one of those old habits that dies awfully hard. So we talked about our upbringing next, family and friends, and all the stuff I told you about my original purpose in being decanted came out kind of naturally in conversation. After I'd spilled the beans about being a sex worker, I…well, I don't really know what I expected. Maybe the cute human guy I'd started to get to like would lose all respect for me. Maybe he'd think of me more like an object than a person, like my johns used to. Maybe…well, I don't really know, but that's not what happened. What happened instead was that he kissed me on the forehead.

“Why'd you do that?" I stammered out, touching the spot, but not rubbing it – I kind of liked the way his lips had felt on my furry head, and didn't want to brush it off.

“I'm sorry," he said, looking bashful and adorable as he avoided my eyes, blushing (for having such dark skin, my Stinky sure does blush easily – it's one of his sickeningly cute features, and I love him for it). “You just…well, you looked like you needed someone to kiss you and make it all better."

What's a girl supposed to do when a handsome, sweet guy does stuff like that? Of course, I think I did the only thing I could do: I gave him a really big hug.

Shocked that we didn't hop into the sack on the first date? I know I was! If my Stinky had wanted to, I would've done just about anything he could desire. But that's a part of why I love my Stinky so much: he didn't want me to think he was pushing himself on me, and learning that I'd been a sex worker just made him extra concerned for my feelings, my needs. I'd been required to have sex as a part of my job, so he guessed that sex might have bad connotations for me. Honestly, I think he'd have happily gone for the rest of our lives, enduring the new nickname he'd gotten from his coworkers and friends for dating a skunkmorph, and never once done anything untoward, or even hinted at the idea of us doing the nasty.

Naturally, I had to be the one to take matters into my own hands, and…other places. Darn sweet, considerate cutie that my Stinky is, he was driving me crazy!

“Remember that first time we did this?" I asked, looking up at my mate's handsome face, gently twisting his smooth brown erection in my hand, my other hand carefully rolling his sac between my fingers. He didn't stop me this time, not now that the connection was severed, and nobody was going to be coming into his office for several hours at least.

“How could I forget, you naughty minx?" he chuckled, then shuddered as I leaned in to flick my tongue over the lightly seeping tip of his penis. “We were supposed to go out to dinner. I had reservations at a nice restaurant. But when I showed up at your door, you were still wearing a towel, fresh out of your fur dryer after finishing your shower. How you talked me into coming inside to wait for you, I'll never know."

“It was chilly out there," I giggled, nuzzling the side of his throbbing member, keeping my eyes on his, letting him know with my expression just how happy I was to be right where I was, serving him with all my skill. “And who can resist a naked skunkbabe when she asks you pretty please, with a cherry on top?"

“Too true," admitted my Stinky, his hips lifting slightly despite his efforts to fight it as I stroked my thumb against the length of his frenulum, made especially sensitive now that he was aroused. “I certainly couldn't resist what you did to me next. My goodness, dear Sepia, you nearly ravished me!"

Well…all right, that's not an unfair statement. I mean, I kinda sorta let my towel fall after I'd closed the door, made it look almost like an accident. My poor Stinky, he struggled between keeping from looking at his girlfriend in her altogether and picking up the towel for me. Naturally, that left him completely vulnerable, and when he finally straightened up, holding the towel, I was there, pressing him against the far wall, grinning like a cat about to eat a canary.

“We never did make that dinner reservation," my Stinky murmured, reminiscing, the memory of me pinning him as he rested with his back against the wall, peeling his belt and trousers open, then taking him into my mouth as I went to my knees, just like I was doing right then.

I closed my eyes, just focusing on the taste of my mate, my hands stroking his trim tummy, and then around to grip his bare butt, my fingers kneading his firm flesh. Even after all the times I'd had sex with humans, I still found smooth skin so exotic, and very, very erotic, a delight to my sense of touch, and just couldn't get enough of it. That this skin happened to belong to my dearest, darling mate, well, that just made everything even better, in all the right ways.

“You do realize, of course," my Stinky continued, “that the Prophet forbade anal sex?"

“Just some sects believe that," I growled out, my voice husky, giving him a look like I was a savage tigress instead of a fluffy skunky, all hungry for his cock. “The others think it's questionable, but not forbidden, as long as it's consensual." I licked my lips, placing my hands on the arms of the chair my Stinky was sitting in, and lifted myself up, straddling his lap, turning myself away to face the desk where he'd rested his interface goggles. “And I, my beautiful, wonderful Stinky, am completely willing. Besides," I couldn't help but giggle again as I gripped his shaft, holding it steady as I got myself into position, “you loved it that first time. And every time after all."

“I suppose," my Stinky said meditatively, “that it is the forbidden fruit that tastes best."

All right…maybe I am kind of slutty. Just a little. With my Stinky. But I'm still not a slut!

I was still telling myself that when I sank my tight pink tailhole down onto that long, smooth humancock, all the way to the hilt.

“You're not the only one who loves this," I added, panting hard as I bent over, gripping the edges of the desk, looking pleadingly over my shoulder, silently begging my Stinky to treat me like his slut, the only person I'd ever let do that to me, because he's the only one I know will never think less of me for it. “All those extra nerves to make my tail work, and the vestigial leftovers from the skunk scent glands the designers took out…they've all got some powerful effects when they're stimulated just so."

One of those effects, incidentally, which my Stinky may or may not have figured out, was producing more and more potent pheromones than most morphs. Enough pheromones to drive my wonderful Stinky well out of his mind with lust!

Seeing my tight tushie thrust out toward him, toned and shapely from hours of hard work coupled with flawless genes, his penis stretching me open, just the head inside for now, was the last straw for my poor Stinky: he couldn't hold himself back anymore…and I couldn't have been happier! Cursing in Urdu and his native Punjabi, my Stinky rose from his chair, seizing my firm, rounded rump in both hands, digging his fingers in until it nearly hurt. Then he started to thrust. I moments, he was humping me like he was a morph himself, brutal and primal and driven and…oooh yeah! Right…there! And then I was cursing in Tagalog as I started to cum already, so turned on by this beautiful, wonderful, perfect man, a human, and yet one to whom I had given myself, heart and soul…and tush as well.

Mmm, so creamy. Nobody made me tingle all over like my Stinky, cumming in my tailhole, filling me up to the brim as he kept on thrusting, gyrating his hips just the way I taught him, adding that extra bit of stimulation with his hand as he slipped it between my legs, tickling my clitty until that part of me joined in the full-body experience. I lifted my butt a little bit, so as to add just a slight bit of bend to his cock as he thrust into me, enough to heighten his pleasures the same way he was heightening mine, my dear, hard-working, ever-thoughtful Stinky. I'd do anything for you, anything…even…

“Stinky?" I murmured as he slowly sank down onto my back, while I wrapped my fluffy tail around him, engulfing him almost like a down comforter (believe me, I'm not exaggerating: I've wrapped myself up in my tail plenty of times to sleep, and I can confirm that it's really comfy).

“Mmm?" he mumbled, caressing my breasts and nuzzling the back of my neck as we spooned together, rolling slightly onto the side so I didn't have to support his whole weight.

“Would you like to make a baby?"

I felt more than saw him blink, before he kissed the crook of my shoulder.

“There is nobody else in the world with whom I would be more honored to have a child," he told me, and I knew he was telling the truth – we morphs always know, once we've learned how to read scent and body language, which means any morph over the age of two, decanted, or twelve, natural birth. “But you know why I cannot accept, however much I might wish it."

“Yes," I sighed, leaning back into him, not wanting to give up our closeness just yet. “Yes, I do. I don't like it…but I do understand."

The one thing that I've wanted, and which my Stinky has never allowed, is that we've never had vaginal sex while I've been in season. You might be thinking that's because of his selfishness, but you'd be wrong. No, the reason my Stinky doesn't want to have sex like that is because he doesn't want children out of wedlock. He wants to have our children legitimately, the open and honest heirs to all that we both have to offer them.

Perhaps you can understand now why Stinky is so willing to do just about anything dear Angel Lords says. After all, she's the one pushing for morph rights internationally, and her daughter, the lovely Mercy Lords, is the one pushing for them in the United States…well, in what's left of that great nation, anyway.

“We'd better get back to work," I said after a long time cuddling with my beautiful mate.

“Yes," he agreed, slowly pulling his well-squeezed shaft from my still-clenching tailhole. “The sooner we finish our work, the faster we hasten the day that we can raise our children the right way."

There's nothing I can imagine that I'd want more than that.

*

The question Diane Lords had asked was one of the simple ones that is so hard to answer: “Why?" Specifically, she'd wanted to know why Cutty was so down on himself, so hateful toward his own kind; toward morphs. Sometimes Diane's capacity for empathy – for “reading" people – was almost supernatural, and in this case she'd detected minute signs from the heavy-muscled, scaly scientist. Signs that made it clear that something was very wrong. Something that might influence Cutty's dedication to the cause of the morphs.

“You heard what I said about my people," the turquoise-eyed male said succinctly, his gaze unwavering as he met Diane's eyes, keeping his expression neutral in that unnervingly reptilian way he had, even if he had more in common with pangolins and wolverines than real alligators. “We were made to be living weapons, intended to dominate and overthrow humanity. I've looked closely at the underlying structure of my people, and I'm not sure we should be allowed to continue to reproduce. Maybe humanity would be better off if we simply went extinct."

“Explain a little more, please," the blonde beauty coaxed, motioning for Pal to go into the next room, her expression giving him a clear idea of what he should bring back when he returned. “What's so wrong about being a morph? Of course you were originally made for a reason, and it's not a very nice one. But that doesn't force you to fulfill the intentions of your designers. Quite the reverse: you've got as much free will as I do."

“Does it matter, though?" Cutty countered, his expression finally revealing a sourness around his long muzzle and eyes. “Our males are quite literally designed to outbreed and outsex any human male. We have powerful instincts that drive us to deliver pleasure, so powerful in fact that we aren't capable of raping a female, and have an overwhelming emotional incentive to make the sex act as pleasurable as possible. Why would any sane human woman give her own species a second glance when she could have a morph for a lover instead?

“What's worse, our pheromones aren't just some addictive substance like cocaine. Like all pheromones, they're airborne hormones designed specifically to alter the structure of the brain, especially the human brain, and even more especially the brains of human females. Humans have almost lost the ability to be influenced by pheromones, as time and evolution has left the receptors essentially vestigial. Morph pheromones, from both our males and our females, however, are aggressive, working their way into those nearly useless receptors, and opening them up again, making them start to function. The younger the human at first encounter with these pheromones, and the longer the exposure, the more they change that human's brain structure so that she becomes fully receptive. About twenty-five is the cutoff point for the most extreme changes, since that's when the brain of an adult human stops its major growth, but that doesn't matter much anymore: morphs are accepted as a servant class all over the world now, taking up the slack left behind in the wake of whyker. In this country, just about every well-off household has a morphservant, usually female, with pheromones that specifically prep the human girls around them to be receptive to the pheromones of male morphs. It's almost impossible for humans not to be exposed to morphs from their earliest ages. And when they reach sexual maturity…"

“Cutty," Diane spoke up, her expression kind, her voice gentle. “Look at me. Do I look like an addict? A crazed pheromone junkie, desperate for her next fix? Or perhaps a dominated slave, the submissive and willing possession of my male morphs?"

“Your first exposure to morphs was at twenty-six," Cutty responded immediately, his startlingly turquoise eyes flicking slightly as Pal reentered the room, carrying a small black box. “You were never really exposed, making you a poor example case."

“What about my daughter, Mercy, then?" Diane continued, taking the box from Pal, giving him a slight nod and smile of thanks as she set it on the table in front of her. “She was raised by Ambrose from a very young age. More than that, she started having sex with him quite early on indeed, her and her friends. She's given birth to two children by him, in fact, as have several of those friends. Would you call her a morph junkie; an addict; a dominated, subservient slave to her morph master? I can see your hesitation, and I won't make you answer right away. Instead, I'll counter your claim with one of my own: I don't think it's wrong to enjoy sex, whatever form it takes. I also don't think that love is just a chemical reaction in the brain, unlike most behavioral psychiatrists, who seem convinced that it's only a sort of hormone-driven addiction that forms between random individuals. I believe in free will, and even if we limit ourselves to the pure science of things, there are so many undefined variables in the way the brain works, and so many seemingly random interconnections, we might as well have free will. The free will to choose to have sex with morphs, if that's what we really want. Do those pheromones and morph instincts enhance sex, though? Oooh yes," she fairly purred, reaching out to tousle Pal's ears with the most affectionate of smiles, which he returned with a wagging tail and extended, happy tongue.

“I've never had a lover as good as a morph," Diane continued, casually shimmying down her clothes as she spoke, exposing first her full, flawless breasts with their large, erect nipples, and the smooth tummy below them. “I've had a few humans who were close, but that's about it. Those instincts you mentioned, though, the ones that drive morphs to get really good at performing sex? I've noticed that they also keep morphs from really dominating us poor, helpless human women. Oh sure, I've known of plenty of cases, even among some of my friends, where human women allow themselves to be subservient to morphs, to even serve as their virtual slaves. But that only lasts as long as it turns the woman on. The moment it's not fun anymore, that's the same moment the woman is free, and the morph backs down, and sometimes the position even reverses." She smirked. “But then, I suppose most of us, women especially, have a submissive streak in us somewhere, at least with someone we can trust. And who could we possibly trust more than a morph?" She glanced at Pal, then nodded. “Bend over, Pal."

The huskymorph immediately obeyed, his beautiful blue eyes wide as Diane pulled a moderately-sizable strap-on from the box, then stepped into it, wincing slightly as it popped neatly into place in the cleft of her neatly-trimmed, snug cunny. Cutty didn't even have to look to know that the adorable huskyboy was very erect right then. Pulling out a bottle of lubricant, the wavy-haired blonde began to thoroughly lather up the stiff black length of the business end of the strap-on, her eyes straying often to admire Pal's adorable fluffy butt.

“You also seem to believe that you're some kind of biological weapon," she added with a glance at the well-defined gatormorph, lifting her head slightly to peek over the table's edge, trying to catch sight of his external, humanlike genitalia (one of Cutty's more unique features, since only a few morphs didn't have a sheath of some sort), and smiling a bit wider when she noticed the tip of his green-skinned glans peeking up, just barely in her range of sight. “If you don't want to look at the rates of morph crimes against humans, which is to say, nearly none outside of war situations, then look at Pal here instead." So saying, she guided the tip of the strap-on to Pal's tense pink tailhole with one hand, before moving both her hands to tenderly caress his presented bottom. “He can't stand the sight of raw meat, even when he knows it's a vat grown cut, something that was never really alive in the first place. I had to hire on another morph to be my cook, and Pal still only eats his meat when it's been fully prepared, and preferably breaded somehow, so he can't see the flesh beneath. Poor, silly puppy."

That was the cue for Diane's first slow, steady thrust, taking her time, not rushing, making sure to roll her hips, screwing her faux penis forward with gentle pressure until, with a slight pop, the tip of the glistening dildo head popped smoothly past Pal's snug tailring. The huskyboy whined softly, his hands gripping the table tightly as he grit his teeth, but not in pain – he was just trying to keep control of himself.

“I think you morphs were made to save us humans from ourselves," Diane finished, even as she began to move her hips, forward and then back, back and then forward, gyrating them as she thrust, almost like a male would have in the same position. This was something they'd both done many times before, of that Cutty was certain, though he was also certain that Diane had done this quite a few more times than the cute, trusting, obedient husky, and couldn't help but imagine the firm, sleek bottom of Ambrose, Marcy's former Doberman dogservant, with its black outer curves and tan-furred treasure tail, in the same position as Pal's. “You morphs are a wakeup call to my species, a clear message that we need to start actually being better people. You weren't really made to kill us – you were made to serve us, and in the process, to show us the way we need to go next. Oh," she giggled then, a girlish act that actually caught Cutty off-guard for a moment. “And if we also get better at sex in the process, well, that's just a nice bonus."

Closing those lovely eyes, Pal began to push back into his mistress, whining softly as his mouth opened, and he began to pant. Digging her hands into Pal's buns, fingers sinking deep into the fluff of his thick coat before gripping the taut, solid muscle beneath, Diane finally started to pick up her pace, her cheeks flushed with her own rising arousal. There was something about performing for an audience, and more importantly an interested audience, that seriously pushed a lot of Diane's buttons, making her want to reach new heights as she made slow love to her precious, precious huskyboy, her dearest friend and closest companion, as well as her sweet lover, who would let her do anything she wanted with him, or to him. Anything.

Knowing just how much Pal was trusting her, the same way she trusted him, Diane grit her teeth, forcing herself to keep her thrusting nice and slow for now, letting Pal decide the pace, decide when he was ready for their fun to escalate. That moment came quickly as the ice-furred male pushed himself up on his hands, and then began to push himself back against Diane's thrusting hips, his head tilting back as he gave a long, low moan, the sound high-pitched, like a soft howl.

Taking full advantage, Diane leaned over her best friend, kissing him full on the muzzle, his agile lips (far more agile than those of any common dog could possibly be) pursing, covering his teeth, kissing her back. He teased her lips with his tongue, and she answered, parting her lips in turn, letting their tongues intertwine as she kept thrusting, knowing from long experience just where to tilt her hips so as to stroke against Pal's prostate with every thrust and withdraw.

Reaching around his hips, Diane found Pal's cock with ease – however sweet-natured he might be, Pal was easily as well-endowed as any morphmale – and began to pump the candy pink prick, her kiss growing more eager, more passionate as she felt his precum dribbling over her fingers, coating them in a glistening glaze. As she pumped her hand, all the way from his erection's humanlike head to the very slight bulge at the base that served as a vestigial knot, she hastened the pumping of her hips to match the speed of her stroking, which in turn matched Pal's own thrusting as he pressed back into his mistress' pumping, his whimpers quite loud now as squirts of precum coated the table beneath him, making the illusory overlay of wood pixelate as the conflict of what was seen and what was actually there played out.

“You…mmm…owe it to us humans to show us how good sex can be, Cutty," Diane got out between grunts of mounting passion as she started working her hips harder, faster, while Pal gripped the table with whiteknuckle tightness, panting as hard and fast as he might've while caught in the Sahara, his eyes glazed with pleasure, unseeing except for the fantasies playing out in his mind upon being claimed by his mistress. “My first time was with a human, and it…ngh…sucked. If you truly want to serve humanity, give us what we need: a good exa…ah…aahhh!"

Shuddering all over, her sleek tummy tense, bottom working at a frantic pace as she finally just let loose and began to pound that sweet huskybutt, Diane's eyes squeezed tightly shut as she began cumming, her inner walls flexing and pulsing around the length of dildo thrust inside of her own body, letting her feel by proxy something akin to the sensations she was giving Pal. The seal where faux-phallus met flesh wasn't perfect by any stretch, however, and Cutty couldn't miss the slick juices dribbling down Diane's inner thighs, making her healthy skin glisten.

Groaning from somewhere deep inside, Pal arched his head upward, eyes rolling back before he closed them, muzzle wide as he panted, his mouth moving as though he was trying to form words, to say something in the midst of his sexual delirium, but he was too far gone to get anything out. Cutty's own mouth, meanwhile, parted slightly, a very alligator-like action, and done for the same reason: to let off some of the excess heat now building in his body from his own pent-up lust. He'd resisted temptation for too long, following his own philosophy, fearing for the safety of humanity at the expense of his own species…and his own desperate need, now at a point only slightly below critical mass. If not for the big alligator's towering will, he would have started jerking himself off right then and there, even if he was in a library near the center of the city, a place frequented by humans and morphs alike. Even if his personal study table was well away from the main thoroughfares, and even if many morphs considered clothing to be optional in the depths of the shelves, outright masturbation in public was still considered taboo where humans might see, just like all morph sexual activities.

After all, they were still considered almost animals by the law, not people. And animals had needs that could not be denied.

Finally the dam broke, and Pal howled, his supple white muzzle wrapping around the pure silver note, jerking upward, a little past a forty-five-degree angle, obscuring Diane partially behind him as his hips started to thrust uncontrollably, his fluffy tail looking as though it were curling even more than usual right before his cum burst upward and out in a glistening arc, glittering in the bright light of the communications room, the effect made even more dazzling by the futile attempts of the equipment to capture every droplet individually, resulting in them being turned into drops of liquid light before Cutty's eyes. Behind Pal, Diane's own head fell back, and she joined her beautiful husky in howling, hands sunk deep into the soft fur and firm flesh of his hips as her sculpted muscles twitched beneath her supple skin, which glistened with pleasuresweat, her whole body a part of the moment of ultimate ecstasy washing over both lovers, smooth-skinned and soft-furred.

Sinking to the table, Diane hugged her adorable lover from behind, kissing his neck and cheeks and head, until he turned his head to face her, catching her lips with his own. Cutty saw the dildo pop free of Pal's tight backside (how could it do otherwise? He was simply that tight!), and soon Pal turned his upper body as well, pulling Diane around and into his surprisingly strong arms – fluffy he might be, but Pal had some serious muscle under that floof. He'd been designed to serve as a hospital corpsman, after all, and while his natural pacifism might have hindered his use in a fight, as would his squeamishness, his protective instincts were even more powerful, as powerful as his desire to heal and to help others however he could. In his arms, Diane was safe.

Blinking his turquoise eyes as this realization came to him, Cutty swallowed, glancing down only momentarily at his painful erection.

“You've given me much food for thought, Miss Lords," he said softly, reaching out a clawed hand to virtually stroke her cheek – the movement did nothing but produce a slight electric tingle, but Diane understood that it was the thought that counted. “Signing off."

“Poor thing," Diane giggled after the big gatormorph had dematerialized. “I do hope he gets that penis of his seen to – he looks so swollen, it must be very painful."

“He'll be all right, mistress," said Pal, slowly opening his bright blue eyes as he smiled at her with love and total trust reflected in his expression. “He's not a supergenius for nothing."

“You're probably right, Pal," agreed Diane, heaving a low, satisfied sigh before she rose to her feet, then took stock. “Goodness, we did make a mess, didn't we? And me with a business lunch meeting, too."

“I'll get you clean again, mistress," Pal assured the woman, rising to his feet behind her and resting his hands on her shoulders – she was, after all, shorter than him, though his subservient positions often belied this fact. “We'll be ready for anything those Saudi petroleum producers have to spring on you, I promise."

“Of course we will," Diane replied with a confident smirk, throwing back her shoulders as she spoke (which, incidentally, made her breasts heave forward alarmingly, causing poor Pal's eyes to grow very wide indeed, his jaw halfway dropping before he got control of himself…mostly). “And that's not the only surprise I'm going to face today."

Turning slightly, Diane wrapped one hand firmly around Pal's swiftly-renewed erection, giving the firm, tasty-looking pink flesh a squeeze before she started walking forward, using the huskymorphs cock like a leash. Pal, naturally enough, meekly followed behind, though he didn't at all mind the opportunity this afforded him to admire the flex and sway of his mistress' shapely buttocks and hips.

“How do you feel about puppies, Pal?" Diane suddenly asked as they stepped out of the conference room.

“I…I guess if you want me to breed someone, mistress, I'll do anything to please you," Pal answered after a moment's hesitation. “I just hope you'll let me help raise them: I've always wanted to be a daddy."

“Good," Diane stated with a satisfied nod. “Because as soon as my meeting with the Saudis is finished, I want you to get started filling me with my first morph baby."

Pal couldn't really think of anything to say to that. So he just shut his wide open mouth (eventually), and let Diane lead him wherever she pleased. His wildly wagging tail, however, said a lot more than words ever could.